


The Enchanted Sweetness of Our Song

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Merman sex, Scuba Diving, Telepathy, mermaid Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Down in the depths, with only the fish for company, sometimes Dean hears things. Sometimes he hears bubbles out of step with his own breathing. Sometimes he hears swishing from the other side of the rig, and by the time he maneuvers around the pylon, there's nothing to see but a spooked school of herring or a suspiciously waving tuft of algae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Enchanted Sweetness of Our Song

**Author's Note:**

> Based off an anonymous tumblr [prompt](http://sluttycas.co.vu/post/77240098107/dean-is-in-love-with-the-merman-and-nearly-drowns) (it was me, promise)

Down in the depths, with only the fish for company, sometimes Dean hears things. Sometimes he hears bubbles out of step with his own breathing. Not that the rebreather sends up the plumes of bubbles he used to get with his recreational gear. Sometimes he hears swishing from the other side of the rig, and by the time he maneuvers around the pylon, there's nothing to see but a spooked school of herring or a suspiciously waving tuft of algae.

Dean enjoys the solitude. Really. Much better than leading a bunch of dumb careless tourists on a leisurely nature tour through ancient and fragile reef structures, and then watching them park their fat asses on said ancient and fragile reef structures and rendering them new and useless chunks of dead limestone at the bottom of the ocean. True, there was something to be said for putting his dive skills to use in the tropics, making five dives a day from the back of the live-aboard boat, usually wearing naught but swim trunks and a well-worn band tee. Oh sweetheart, can he do shorts. Three gourmet meals a day in the dining room, elbow to elbow with beautiful people and wealthy old coots. Cougars with money to burn and beds to warm. Then there was the weird little radio show that traveled with an entourage of models who did exotic photo shoots dressed in mermaid tails. Dean learned two things that week: that he harbored a pretty serious mermaid kink, and that merchicks are way harder to lay than merdudes. And the hot tub! Technically it was for the guests, but he always managed to finagle an invitation.

He hums. These are memories to keep him warm and sane in the murky dark. They occupy his thoughts during a menial task like scraping barnacles. Less helpful when they pop up, so to speak, when he's trying to change out sophisticated proprietary industrial components, three hundred feet down under the cold dark North Sea. Yeah, the mermodel tends to make his appearance as soon as Dean puts a thick, clumsy glove on a one-of a-kind experimental gauge that costs more than his life. Thanks, dude.

Dean prefers thoughts of a real solid human, though, to the strange hum that usually accompanies the bubbles and the swishes. It's just not natural. He has checked up and down the rig for the source of the hum, and he knows, he just _knows_ , it's neither mechanical nor electrical. It sounds alive. And he also knows that it's in his head. Literally, not like he's imagining it. Even so, the source of the sound changes position. He can sense when the source, whatever it is, is closer or father away. If he's honest, it's nearly omnipresent when he's in the water, from the time he submerges, throughout his chores, through his safety stops, and only breaking when he surfaces. 

He's clamped in at his first safety stop, just pulling an abused and waterlogged copy of _The Dharma Bums_ (Dean does _not_ read _Cat's Cradle_ underwater because it creeps him out, and most of the other books he brought with him on the rig have sentimental value) from the tool-sling at his hip. The hum has been distant all day, and now it thrums, almost menacingly, in his ears. He twists his head in the direction of the source and sees bubbles. _Shit._ It would wait until he's strapped down. Whatever it is. He can hear it moving, shooting rapidly, loudly, from one massive leg to the other, and sometimes he gets a glimpse of bubbles. Swooshes of bubbles. But what's making them? Where are the bubbles coming from?

He freezes at the laugh.

_Motherfuck, it laughed._ It's laughing in his head. 

It is everything he can do not to swim for the surface in a panic. But that would be a slow and painful death, certain death with three exclamation points, and compared with the big fat question marks down here, he's somewhat willing to take his chances in the deep. Hand over his heart to calm the thumping, maybe subconsciously to muffle the sound, he draws out a large notched knife and he listens.

The hum dims, and the sea is suddenly eerily quiet. Even the fish are silent and still. Whatever-it-is is not moving away, but the hum is definitely lower, farther than it was. _What are you?_

Inside his head, he can hear the buzz move closer, and he can hear a different sort of hum, more like a noise in the throat than the electrical feedback he's used to. From his ears, he catches the faint sound of something big cutting through the water. Not nearly so loud as before; it feels like a tiptoe would sound if he was on land, and some of his fear leaves him. _Come out, it's okay._ He's almost cooing, like coaxing out a small woodland creature. _What are you?_

It's as close as it's ever been, and Dean feels cold. Shivery, nervous, chilled to his fingertips. Terrified. 

Until the hum, the throaty hum, swells, like it's cooing back at him, speaking calming words in a language he can't understand. Or maybe it's imitating him. _It's okay,_ he thinks again. _I won't hurt you if you won't hurt me._

The hum becomes a flash of light, and he realizes he still has the blade in his hand. _Sorry, sorry, you're right,_ he thinks, though why he's attaching meaning to the light and sound in his head is anyone's guess. He stows the knife and raises his hands. He swims out as far as the chain will allow, hands out in a gesture of peace, _I won't hurt you. I won't hurt you. I promise._

A humanoid hand reaches out from behind the pillar, and Dean recoils. _What are you?!_

The hand pulls back. Hums soothingly again. 

_Sorry, i'm skittish. Come on out. I'm okay, it's okay._

Two hands reach around. A shaggy floating mop of black hair and a round, bluish face appear next.

Dean gasps, and it almost disappears again, but it must know that Dean is no longer afraid, because it swims completely clear of the rig's shadow. Almost within Dean's grasp. 

It is beautiful. It looks more or less human. Most of the skin looks human, at least, though paler than Dean's, and punctuated with bony ridges, especially at the wrists and oh those cheekbones. Feathery gills cover much of its neck. Two lips, one nose, two large eyes, irises the color of its cheeks, its hands. Its tail.

Oh god. Dean can't breathe. It's a merman. 

_You're real. How can you be real?_

It smiles, just a very tiny upturn of the corner of the eyes. _Sorry, he,_ Dean thinks irrationally. When the merman hums, Dean looks down at his legs. 

_I'm human._ he thinks, suddenly embarrassed by the dangling appendages. _The fins aren't mine, though_ , flexing his ankles. _They're shoes._

The merman tilts his head, probably trying to process the concept of shoes. How could Dean possibly explain shoes to something that doesn't wear clothes?

He should not think of nakedness. Not this close to a real living, breathing merman. He feels his cheeks heating under his hood. He ducks his head, can't look him in the eye. 

But when he ventures a peek, the merman's face is suffused with a tinge of pale green, giving him a sort of turquoise glow. _You're blushing?_

That soft smile plays again across his face, and Dean wants to scoop him up. Except he can't break his safety stop. He checks his computer: seventeen seconds before he ascends to the next stage. He tries to communicate the idea of "alarm," so his new friend isn't startled when it beeps. He counts down with his fingers. Calmly, he relays the time, _Three, two, one, beepbeepbeep, beepbeepbeep,_ and silences the alarm. _Up,_ he gestures.

The merman shakes his head and all Dean can hear in his head is panic.

_Not all the way,_ trying to indicate a middle distance.

He shakes his head again, and Dean is mesmerized by the way his hair drifts through the water. He feels himself heating up again and he almost pants. _You're so beautiful._

The other creature opens his eyes wide and his skin turns green again, and Dean gets the briefest flash of some very strong emotion, sensation. As he's puzzling it out, he realizes that the merman's lips are pressed to the snout of his face mask. The merman pulls back and holds out one webbed hand, dark blue palm facing Dean. He does the same, and their palms meet. Dean clasps their hands together for a moment, his fingers sinking gently against the springy webbing and brushing against the ridges on the back of his hand, and with another bright flash, the merman surges away. Hand still upraised, Dean twitches it in an awkward goodbye to the vanishing figure.

A week passes before Dean submerges again. This time, it's a faulty pressure gauge that needs replacing, about two hundred fifty feet down. He's gone longer between dives, never too much shorter, but when he reaches the two hundred foot mark, he feels a pang of longing, immediately followed by a bright flash that feels like reunion. Almost in the same moment, a long torpedo rockets towards Dean, colliding with him and wrapping hands around Dean's head, claiming physical closeness like an old friend. 

_Wow, careful, buddy, you almost knocked my rebreather off._

The merman backs off, gives a look of remorse.

_I'm not mad, it's just dangerous._

The head tilts.

_Yeah, I need all this to breathe, or I die._

His eyes go huge, and suddenly a flood of thoughts and fears and worries go screaming through Dean's brain.

_No, no, it's fine. I'm not dying. Not anytime soon. But I'm not like you._ He looks towards the surface. _The air is thin, not heavy and wet like water. We can't breathe it or-_

He giggles, and Dean sighs, because he didn't realize how much he loved the sound of it. _What are you laughing at?_ he thinks, trying to be stern and getting about as far as amused.

The merman comes forward and kisses his helmet again, then takes his hand and waits to be led.

Dean positions himself in front of the faulty gauge and stabilizes himself in the water column. He feels the merman compelling him to explain what he's doing. Dean shrugs, _It's boring._ A nudge of sorts follows. He looks up, sees and feels a sense of pleading, and he relents. He launches into a rote recitation of the importance of pressure gauges, and he's about to speculate as to why this one failed, when a giggle interrupts him. Dean laughs, too, behind a full face mask and his breathing apparatus. _Yeah, I told you it's boring._

He feels a soft warmth envelop his mind. He looks at his merman and finds an ethereal grin and eyes laser-focused on Dean. He dares himself to meet those eyes, devastating, hypnotic, and he's suddenly struck with a fear of sirens, the suddenly very real danger of being led to his death.

The other shakes his head furiously, whipping his hair into eddies and nonsensical tufts .

_Don't be afraid? Yeah okay, easier said than done, sport._

Still fighting Dean's cynicism, the merman puts his palm against his chest and pushes his hand out backwards, towards Dean.

_You want to talk to me, tell me a story?_

He smiles and closes his eyes serenely, and Dean's head floods with imagery. He doesn't understand everything. Hell, Dean doubts he understands a third, a quarter, a tenth, but it's beautiful. He picks out a crown, a boy, a merprince. In a castle. Filled with light and mirrors, full of love and cheer and good things to eat. But there are shadows, too. And the shadows reach. The shadows lurk in the faces of those who smile and wish the young Prince well. And Castiel is frightened, so he swims away, as far as he can, never looking back.

_Your name is Castiel?_

The merman looks as astonished as Dean feels that something as ineffable as a name should pass through this telepathic connection. Dean tries to send his name, to, and feels a little tug of an echo as he _hearsseesknows_ his name in return. They both smile, test out the other’s name, resulting in an odd little psychic thrill that travels straight to Dean's nethers. _God, you're hot, Castiel._

The thought makes Castiel bold. He swims to Dean, wraps his hands around Dean's head and kisses his face mask again. Dean tries to direct his attention to the face below the mask, and Castiel retreats an arm’s length in confusion, but something like relief.

Dean can't resist a chuckle as he returns the thought. _No, I'm not a metal man, not a robot. These are clothes, clothes and special equipment to keep me warm and safe under the water._

The merman crosses his two hands across his own chest, then slides his hands down to cling at his waist with his bony webbed fingers. 

_Yes, I believe you,_ Dean thinks, _I believe you would like to keep me warm and safe under the water. And if I thought I knew how, I'd stay here and let you._

Castiel’s face darkens. He pushes his hand outward from his chest again, asks to resume the story.

Dean nods and returns to his work.

A man stands on a boat. A ship. A big wooden thing, not that Cas quite understands what is meant by wood.

_Cas? You’re asking what does ‘Cas’ mean? It's a nickname, an endearment. I gotta soften your high and mighty name,_ he jokes, but Castiel is still confused. _It's something I do,_ Dean shrugs. _I shorten names. Sometimes people do it to be mean. For you, it's a mark of, uh, affection, maybe._

The explanation suffices and with a soft eye-crinkle, Cas continues: The man stood on a boat. In this version, he looked like Dean, but Dean assumes his imagination is somehow projecting himself into the tale. The man stripped off his clothes and he dove into the water, cutting through the water with his young, lean body. He couldn't breathe, and the merman came to rescue him, to perform some magic to give the man gills. Dean could not see the merman rescue the human, but he could see Cas gripping a small glowing pearl about the size of a shooter marble and he could feel a buzzing like the background hum of feedback that Cas generated.

_That buzz, that’s you. That’s your magic?_

A nod.

Dean feels awestruck, but the emotion is his own.

_And the man? That's me? You’re telling the story of us?_

But no, Cas shakes his head and impresses upon Dean a sense of reversal, of time moving backward, far in the past.

And then a feeling of repetition as Cas gives him déjà vu.

_But that was you who rescued the man,_ Dean ventures. _How long do you live anyway?_

The glimpse of infinity that follows overwhelms Dean and he thinks dizzily that he might be sick. The merman reaches for him, catches his eye, calms him. Brings him back from the eternal abyss. Cas waits, patient as a statue, and only when Dean breathes normally does Cas let him go. 

Cas doesn't attempt to tell more of the tale; instead he takes up a position on one side of the pillar, where he can watch Dean work. He talks of the fish and the sea creatures of his realm, of his life in exile, a sad lonely merman finding joy and color and wisdom in a bleak but lively world. Dean finishes his task and lingers considerably longer than he should, enjoying the narrative in pictures. He checks his computer, sees he has just enough air if he leaves, calmly, now.

He blows a kiss and then laughs at himself. But the merman follows suit, finding it hilarious.

_Come to the chain with me?_

Castiel follows Dean to the first stop, continues telling him stories, Dean unable to tear his eyes from the animated face before him. The things Cas must have seen, and the tiny sea worm with the big tough fishy neighbor is what fascinates him, what he chooses to tell the human. Dean's humbled to be so close to this magical being. Who could probably snap him if he stepped out of line.

The story has ended, and Cas looks sad. Worried.

Dean takes his hand, searches his face for the answer, and finds his own name shoved back at him. Cas bombards him with images of warmth and comfort, until Dean is helpless under the barrage of good feelings and can only smile like a dork as he holds both of Cas' hands in his.

When the beep sounds, it startles both of them. Slowly they separate, and Dean rises to the next station.

~~~

The night is long. Days on the rig are filled with tasks and chores and obligations, but the nights are so long. Dean gets up, takes a book to the deck, and settles down to read, with the sea in his sights, in his ears, the smell of it in his nose. He has no hope of meeting with Castiel, doubts that the merman can communicate in the air, but to be this close is better than suffocating in the dank barracks. Hardy men doing a dirty job, in the harshest of conditions, enduring wind, rain, bitter chill. Storms that buffet the sturdiest rig in the world’s oceans, until Dean feels like he's dizzy and airsick. Dean wonders sometimes why he's even here, at the top of a tall tower in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by strangers who make as little sense to him as he does to them. Men with wives and children to spend all their pay, with homes in which to spend all their weeks off. And Dean with no one, nothing, a duffel with a few clothes, a few books, a few photographs of dead people.

He looks down at the book in his hand. Through the char marks on the spine, he can almost make out the words “Awakening” and “Chopin.” He opens the front cover, admires the neat handwriting at the top right corner: “Mary Campbell, 1972.” And yet. He doesn’t understand why he loses everyone he loves. Why he is left with their things, poor consolation prizes. He doesn’t want things and jobs and money and stuff; he wants- he wants- fuck it all, he wants to have a _someone._

He rears back and chucks the book over the railing, far out to sea. "Castiel!" But as he clambers up the rails, he looks down at the drop and his recklessness fails him. Shaking, he brings his boots back to the deck. "Cas," he sighs. "I don't know what to do. I'm grounded, Cas, came up too low on air, and they benched me. I'm a liability, they said. I'm stuck up here, no dives until after the shift comes back from shore leave. I can't go that long. In the best of times, I couldn't go a month without strapping on a tank and escaping under the waves. And now," he falters. "And now that I, oh Jesus God fuck, now that I want you, every day, I won't make it. I want to jump in right now, like the man in your story, but I can't, I can't, I'm so scared, Cas."

He stares out at the wine-dark sea and fights off his frustration and rage. "I won't kill myself, Cas, I promise. That's a path I turned away from a long time ago. I've seen it from all sides, and it's, it's not me. I know that much." He chuckles grimly at himself, alone in the night, dangling five hundred feet above a distant ocean, huddled against the cold and talking to himself. "Because I know you can't hear me way up here. Hell, I can barely hear me over this wind." He grunts. "Am I that desperate that I'd fall- that I'm pining after a dude with a fin, who doesn't speak my language? Doesn't even speak; thinks another language. God, Cas, what am I supposed to do?"

As he sighs and contemplates heading back to the quiet of the barracks, or maybe even just the mess hall to mope into a cup of hot black coffee, he hears an unusual whistle. It pierces through the shriek of the wind. It pierces his icy chest and settles warm and dense in his lungs, until he can breathe again. His head clears, and he knows what he needs.

Two decks down, he knows he can find a way down. He’s seen other rig workers shimmying across the girders like it was nothing. Even wuss that he is, he knows it can be done, and frankly, it’s the only way to sea level at this time of night without using the elevator and alerting management. 

_Easier said than done._ He forces his leg to swing over the railing and reach down for the first foothold. _Shit, I’m insane. I’m insane. I’ve actually lost it. I’m insane. I’m climbing down the rig for a merman. Shit. I am really fucking insane._ The words gradually blur into a battle cry of sorts, and the combination of the mantra and a constant stream of chirps and whistles from Cas urges him slowly downward, one step to the next. He has a rough idea that he’s descended about four hundred feet, but he _really_ doesn’t want to look down and test the theory. The chirps are nice, but not actually constructive; as Dean suspects, Cas can’t send pictures through air. Dean has to do it; he has to look. “Never thought it'd end like this,” he shouts. “A man-fish-dude. Luring me to my death.”

Castiel stops chirping abruptly, and Dean hears a splash. _What’s got his panties in a twist?_

He wraps his arms, legs, soul around a girder. He recites every prayer he knows and says the alphabet, too, for good measure. He lifts his head and peeks over the railing. 

No, no, no, he feels dizzy, nearly hurls, definitely blacks out.

~~~

It’s a dream; Dean knows that much. Mary is peeling the plump baby arms of tiny Dean from around her neck, loosing his feet from her waist. She leans over him as she lays him on his back on his big-boy bed. But as she tries to release him, he spasms. A hypnic jerk. He flails and jolts himself awake.

~~~

It’s not a dream; Dean is falling. He struggles to draw breath, and when he does, it’s punched out of him by the brick wall that rises to meet his back.

~~~

He comes to in the pitch black. He falls more slowly now. His eyes burn and his lungs burn, and he realizes there’s no breath in his body and he gasps in a lungful. 

They fill with seawater.

As his body drowns, he watches Castiel pluck a bubble from the sea. He rolls it between his fingers, making it glow, solidify. He crams the marble into his mouth. Swims close. Holds his lips over Dean’s, sweeping the marble into Dean’s mouth with his long tongue. Dean can barely see Cas’ panicked face above his, shouting something into Dean’s brain. Scraping his fingers down the sides of Dean’s throat. 

Dean’s eyes drift closed.

Long fingers push the marble down his throat, and he nearly chokes. He can hear something that seems to mean, “Swallow!” And when he does, he feels a heavy weight in his throat, hears the electrical buzz of mermagic. His eyes fly open. _Castiel?_

The merman sobs. Dean is aware, vaguely, that Castiel is cradling him, chest-to-chest, one hand clutching Dean’s back, the other tangled in his hair, and he’s repeating the same _imagephrase_ , something something, _I did not lure you to your death_ , angrily, sadly chanting it.. 

_I’m sorry,_ Dean tries, _I didn’t mean it. You would never hurt-_

Before he can finish the thought, a searing pain rips through Dean’s throat and his mouth contorts in a silent scream. His head drops backwards and he writhes. Hitting the waves and drowning hurt less. He’s blind and deaf to everything but the pain. 

~~~

When he comes to, he’s in a cave, a grotto, perhaps. Stalagmites, stalactites, sparkling blue-green bioluminescence on the ceiling. And Cas watching over him. Dean’s eyes open, and Cas looks like he’s remembered how to breathe. He kisses Dean senseless, rambling in pictures; golden flashes and a sense of relief fill Dean’s mind, and he can’t remember anything in the chaos.

Cas is telling him about something beautiful. What is beautiful? 

_Me?_ Dean asks.

Castiel beams, can’t stop smiling. He gestures towards Dean’s lovely and voluminous gills. He sends a flash of red to Dean involuntarily. 

_I love you, too,_ Dean replies, stunned at the words.

~~~

Dean isn't sure what he's looking for. He circles Cas as Cas circles him, each searching for something familiar on the naked form before him. Kisses transcend species, and they're lovely, alternately sweet and fiery, but Cas has yet to place his hands anywhere to make Dean burn. And clearly he is equally clueless.

_Wanna touch you._

Confused, Cas drops his eyes to Dean's fingers digging into his hips.

Dean chuckles and pushes him images: love, lust, sex, ecstasy.

His eyes flash and he picks Dean up bodily and deposits him on a wide low shelf. Cas wedges Dean’s back flush against the wall, his own back to Dean's chest. He positions Dean's legs on either side of his tail and giggles, because legs are ridiculous.

_Hey, stop making fun of my legs. That's how we get around topside._

Cas hushes Dean and resumes stroking Dean's thighs, the hard muscles, the soft skin, the short thin hairs, so unlike his scales.

When Dean impatiently nips at his neck, Cas takes Dean's hands in his. His left hand is set the task of running slowly up and down the midline of Cas’ torso.

Dean sighs as Cas pushes back the sensation psychically, letting Dean know exactly how good it feels. Up until this moment, he has seriously underutilized telepathy in his sex life.

With Dean's right hand, Cas strokes the underside of the scaly ridge above his tail. The scales are smooth, flat (Dean wants to call them dry), not slick and feathery like he expects from their gills. They feel like piano keys under his fingertips, and he taps out a simple melody, which makes Cas squirm and make absolutely filthy noises in his mouth and throat. Dean wishes he knew how to play a symphony.

A slapping sound calls his attention away from Cas’ ventral ridge: Cas’ tail thrashing, desperate and needy.

_What do you want? Show me what you want._

Cas raises the lower third of his tail to Dean’s line of sight, folding himself in half. The word "cloaca" drifts across Dean's memory.

_May I?_ his eyes dancing.

Cas squeals.

Dean reaches forward and caresses first one clasper, then the other. Then both, and Cas trembles. Dean is beside himself with second-hand joy. _Cas,_ he whines. With his thumb, he draws circles from clasper to clasper and back, down and around. He dips in to stretch at muscle, as Cas presents. His (if it can’t be called a cock, what is it?) is long and thin, but wide like a shark’s fin. He guides Dean’s hand, caressing himself with two of Dean’s fingers astride the organ. _Cas, that feels so good. I love it, I love you._

Cas is incoherent and babbling the most beautiful nonsense in pictures and in sounds. Dean is on the edge, and tickling the ivories tips them both over, screaming one another's names.

_Cas, that was perfect. You are so beautiful, thank you, thank you. Oh my sweet baby Cas._

Cas is a blank, wordless. When he rouses a bit, he suggests something about feeling like a jellyfish.

Dean laughs, presses a kiss to Cas’ hair. _Me too._

~~~

His first dream underwater confuses him with its exotic and unfamiliar imagery. He sees cloacal kisses, followed by strange brown leather purses, wiggling on the sand. 

~~~

Dean awakens to an empty grotto. He hears the buzz in his head, though, and hopes that Cas has not gone far. He calls out to him, and sighs in relief to see bright blue eyes peering back from beyond the doorway. _I may have made a terrible mistake,_ he warns. _I have no idea what I’m supposed to eat now._

The merman chuckles and shows Dean two heaping handfuls of oysters. 

Oysters! Not raw fish or squid, but oysters! _I’ve had worse,_ he shrugs in jest.

Cas takes one mollusc shell and whacks it hard against the rocks, splintering a hole in the struck end. He sucks out the innards, and hands Dean an oyster of his own to destroy and devour. To his credit, he tries, he really does, but he’s new, weak as a fry, his muscles unaccustomed to generating the necessary force underwater. _I guess it’s harder than it looks._

While he keeps trying, Cas takes pity on him, feeding him four oysters in quick succession. The look on his face suggests something like guilt or maybe it’s discomfort. 

_Crack!_ Dean’s got one open! It’s not a large hole, but it will suffice. 

Without hesitation, he offers it to Cas, who looks inordinately pleased by the gift. He slurps it greedily, and blushes bright turquoise.

_Let me guess: I just married you or something._

Cas squeals softly, shyly. More like _mated for life,_ but the effect is the same, Dean reckons.

_I’m yours until these,_ gesturing at his own glistening new set of gills, _wear off. How long does this bubble magic last?_

Before answering, Cas pulls Dean’s face forward and touches their foreheads together. He gives Dean a gentler version of the vertiginous display that accompanied the question of Cas’ age. 

Dean smiles and kisses Cas. _That should be almost enough time._ As they separate, though, a new thought occurs to Dean. _But then, what about the other man? What happened to him?_ Dean thinks involuntarily. He winces, already feeling discomfort building around Cas. 

Despair, sadness, grief, remorse flow from Cas like tears.

_You couldn’t save him._

The sense of fear, longing, regret builds, and Dean has to fight to keep the emotions from seeping into his own core. He pictures instead a man who didn’t realize that that he’d been drowning on dry land, who didn’t know that he’d been drowning his whole life, and in every one before that. _But you saved me._


End file.
